Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 151304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151304 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
I picked up the photo, studied it a second, and realized I recognized the man. He was Russian, old stock. A soldier under Cora’s father for Zakon, a firm that competed with Chaos in every which way. They were the sole reason Bratva tore the roles from us.
Bratva didn’t like attention, and unfortunately, Zakon lived for it.
Holding the photo between my fingers, I placed it back on the table and waited.
A moment later, Roam said, “You know him?”
“Not well.”
Roam nodded lightly as he uttered a straightforward, “He’s becoming a problem for me.”
Now that gave me pause.
Surely, he didn’t mean what I thought he meant. Because that was a big step up from robberies, intimidation, and recruitment.
I let out a careful laugh. “I’m not an assassin.”
But Roam simply picked up his glass of whisky and studied it. “You are whatever I want you to be.”
Sometimes, it was hard to keep my mouth shut. And this was one such time. “Listen, man. I know you’re pissed that I didn’t show, but—”
He cut me off. “Oh, no. I’m not angry. I’m simply extending a courtesy.” Roam pushed out of his chair and walked the office. “I assumed you needed the money, and the price on this job seemed right.” His calculating eyes rested on me then, and a single brow rose. “Was I wrong?”
I hated myself for asking what I did. “How much?”
And he grinned, knowing he had me. “Enough to make a lot of your problems go away.” The grin fell, and his tone deepened some. “I’m just asking you to take care of one of mine.”
I looked away, out the window to the tops of the buildings that surrounded the one we were in, and spoke the words with a hint of reluctance. “I’ll need the address.”
The leader of The Disciples said, “Get it done. Tonight.”
The photograph lay face-up on the desk. I tried not to think about the guy, but it was impossible.
He had daughters. He had a wife. At this point, a couple of grandkids, at the very least. But he’d made his presence known to a person who had the means to eliminate a problem.
My jaw tightened.
If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.
I took the photo and stood, shoving it into my pocket. With a jerk of his chin, Roam watched me leave, keeping a close eye on his investment. And regardless of how I felt about what I was doing, I didn’t exactly have the choice to stop.
It wasn’t personal. Business never was.
My conscience was eating at me. It nibbled and bit until I felt ill, and it was a little over 6:00 p.m. when I sent the text.
Me: Can’t do it.
My stomach did a weird jerky, unsettled thing.
I knew I’d likely just lost my bucket of gold, but there were some things I wouldn’t do. Surprised the shit out of me. Ten years ago, I would have taken the job without pause if it were done in the name of Chaos.
I would have smiled in the fucker’s face as I pulled the trigger.
It seemed I’d changed.
An hour passed, and I received no response. I stood with a heavy sigh, showered, and got ready for work. I felt numb as I dressed, even more dazed as I helped Anika out of the car and walked us inside the club.
Bleeding Hearts was unsurprisingly busy.
From my space in the shadows by the bar, I spotted Lev sitting at the far corner of the room with Mina seated beside him. When he caught me looking, he lifted his drink in acknowledgement, and I lifted my chin. I turned to the bar in time to see my woman reach across the counter and gently touch some poor schleps face while pouting those delicious lips of hers his way.
My gut clenched tightly.
I hated that, but I understood it was part of the job.
My eyes narrowed when they settled on Anika. She looked frazzled, as though she couldn’t keep her mind on the job, and when she dropped the glass she was holding and it made a shrill shattering sound, she muttered, “Shit,” before crouching down to pick up the pieces. And I worried.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t get her to talk to me.
She was battling. She was losing. And it was tearing her apart, one day at a time.
“Yo, Chessie,” I called out, and the woman turned to me expectantly. I placed a bill on the counter. “Send her an espresso martini. Maybe it’ll help her study.”
Chessie smirked before she put her fingers on the counter, took the money, and made it up before walking it to the opposite end of the bar. As she placed it down, Cora’s head lifted, and Chessie leaned in, speaking to the infuriating woman who insisted on dragging her books out and studying right there at the bar. I couldn’t see what Chessie was saying, but when Cora’s face softened, she looked across the bar to me and lifted her drink to her lips, her eyes smiling. She took a small sip, then placed the glass down and blew me a kiss in thanks.